Jan. 8th, 2010

Tinker went to the vet last night because he has been extremely sneezy and lowkey lately. During the course of our visit, not only did he SHAKE LIKE A LITTLE BITTY BABY, but I also called another client out for being quite rude ("Wow! You are just incredibly rude!").

She started to half-defend herself (which I do a wonderful impression of, in person), but I just said "RUDE." to her again, loudly. She sat down and wouldn't look at me.

Shortly thereafter, the vet told me she is convinced Tinker has a hyperthyroid.

Oh, just fucking great. I thought I was done with having animals who needed daily medication for the rest of their lives. Apparently, it was just a short vacation from it. It was nice while it lasted, after all.

I get a bit weepy when I think about it, though. Tinker is 17. But, he doesn't look or act like it. And he is, quite simply, my good friend. Between the not looking/acting that old and me being so used to people reacting to Baby, my other cat, and his very advanced age (22 years old) all the time, that I've always kind of just forgot that Tinker was also pretty old. Older than most cats people have.

Baby's imminent demise, I've made peace with over the past year. Given the fact that any given day, he could just not wake up again. Sure, I'll be massively upset for a long time; I have known that cat since the day he was born and I will be heartbroken when he finally goes, but I've had him for 22 years. He's older than one of my fucking friends, for Christ's sake.

The Engineer and I have a theory that Baby is actually slowly draining the life force of everyone around him in an effort to gain immortality. Whenever someone rubs his belly (which causes him to flop on his side in boneless seizures of ectacsy), he always puts his one back foot against the belly-rubbing individual's leg. This is the point of contact, where the soul-transfer is initiated. The longer his belly rubbing continues, the more of one's soul is stolen, and the longer Baby walks the earth.